


Dreamcatcher

by pbjelly



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Season 1, Sharing a Bed, well if you interpret the canon like i do, yes it's a bed sharing fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:41:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28189359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pbjelly/pseuds/pbjelly
Summary: Will finds an unconventional way to stop his nightmares.(Season 1 era)
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 1
Kudos: 38





	Dreamcatcher

It’s never been unusual for Will to have nightmares.

Even as a young boy in Louisiana, he remembers having terrifying visions of monsters and storms that would wake him in the middle of the night and bed his father for comfort. He remembers the safety of sleeping in his dad’s bed afterwards, how all of his troubles seemed to slip away.

But the recurring dreams continued well into adulthood, at which point he was far too old to be crying to his dad. Like everyone, he just had unpredictable dreams about random things that frightened him. He could just throw off his sweaty shirt and move to the other side of his bed. But since starting consulting for thee FBI again the nightmares had been… different. He couldn’t seem to shake the images that haunted him, even in broad daylight. As he got deeper and deeper into the case of the Minnesota Shrike, he felt like he couldn’t tell dreams from reality: ghosts, stags, and cannibalistic plumbers seemed to materialize and dissipate as they pleased.

All he wants is to leave Minnesota. Being here made it hard to escape what was plaguing him: the trauma of orphaning a young girl. The trauma that Hannibal was supposed to be evaluating, and also somehow seemed to be contributing to. But Abigail Hobbs wanted to visit home, and Will would be damned before he takes something else from her. He hoped maybe if she got closure, maybe he would too.

But day one was not going well. The Hobbs’ home had been severely vandalized, and the public were trying to look in from all directions. Will dragged himself back to his motel room, the same one he had suffered in when they were first investigating the shrike, and collapsed onto the cheap bed.

The room is fairly large,  _ thank you, FBI funding _ , but there’s not much to be said for any motel in rural Minnesota. It featured a small kitchenette, a table that looked like it may be meant for a patio, a bathroom, a bed, some obscenely average mass-produced artwork, and a tv that did not have any porn channels (not that Will was in the mood for it anyway). Will gets up only to shut the curtains that overlooked the unscenic highway, before crawling under the covers in the clothes he was already wearing.

His nightmares continue as they had in the weeks before. The characters remain the same. Tonight he finds himself in the Hobbs household, bursting in the door to find Abigail in the hands of her father, her throat about to be slit. Will has been here many times before. He shoots the pair just as Garret Jacob Hobbs is about to strike the fatal blow, but his bullet goes through Abigail’s head. And again through her heart. Again and again, until it’s all pointless- she’s dead. He stares into the cold eyes of her father.

“I see,” he tells him.

Will wakes up drenched in sweat and gasping for air, taking a minute to place where he is in the unfamiliar bed. He looks at his watch, still strapped to his wrist: 3:27am. It’s going to be a long night.

***

He awakens again in the morning, when Hannibal appears at the door to his motel room, bearing the gift of  _ châteaubriand _ , (the meat was perfectly tender, Hannibal insisted, and was locally sourced.) Will is barely conscious, and dressed in not much more in his underwear, having stripped of yesterday’s clothing sometime in the night. Hannibal is impeccably dressed in a blue 3 piece suit, as always. How he hasn’t managed to get jumped while spending time in the Midwest (or Baltimore, for that matter,) was a mystery, but Hannibal did manage to produce a strange aura of “don’t fuck with me” that is not usually associated with European high society. 

Without needing any invitation, the psychiatrist places it on the small table in the main room, moving the piles of clutter and paperwork that Will had left there. He pulls back the curtains, letting the midday sun ( _ crap, it’s midday? _ ) stream in. He finds the china in the kitchenette and starts serving them both portions. The meal did look appetizing, Hannibal did seem to be gifted with both his cooking and his presentation. Strips of red meat oozed fat and liquid onto an array of perfectly golden vegetables, garnished with some type of herb. But Will’s stomach turned, he hasn’t had much of an appetite recently. 

“Please sit, Will,” Hannibal beckons, as if they were in his own office.

Will sits down in one of the outdated faux leather chairs. 

“I might have to pass on this one, doctor,” he grumbled. “I haven’t been feeling well.” 

Hannibal purses his lips, intrigued. 

“And why is that?” It’s hard to make excuses with your therapist. 

“I just haven’t been sleeping great.”

“Would I be correct in believing you suffer from nightmares? I can only imagine your analytic mind does not clock out at 5pm.”

Once again, Will isn’t pleased with Hannibal’s ability to read him. He fumbles with the collar of his shirt. 

“No rest for the wicked,” he says dryly. Hannibal smirks at that. 

“Many cultures have different explanations for nightmares, most including a demon riding one’s chest in the night.”

Will raises an eyebrow.

“And how did they cope with that?’

“I believe they used faces around the entrance to their homes to scare the  _ mares  _ away.” He pauses for a moment before adding, “I am not recommending this line of action for you.”

“Is that your take on the situation? I’m being possessed?”

“I think you are experiencing a common reaction to stress and anxiety,” Hannibal smiles. “Now please, do eat.”

***

Will isn’t surprised that that day turns out to be worse than the one prior, but he is surprised to see Marissa Schur’s body hanging from a pair of stag antlers. Or for Nicholas Boyle to attack Abigail, Alana, and Hannibal, making him the likely killer. But something just wasn’t adding up for will. He, Alana, and Jack were crouched in the back of an ambulance after first responders had visited the scene. It was getting late, his thoughts were jumbling together. He stands up and faces Jack.

“Where are you going?” Jack asks.

“I wanna go home,” he says sullenly. Jack sighs. He moves to the FBI car he arrived in, but a gentle hand clutches his shoulder.

“You’re in no condition to drive, Will,” Hannibal says. 

“Dr Lecter,” Jack greets. “I didn’t know you had arrived. How’s Abigail?” 

Hannibal looks downwards.

“Not great, I’m afraid. She’s still in shock. And very afraid.”

Jack nods, mimicking Hannibal’s concerned expression. He turns to Will. 

“Will, you’re not in a good place. Spend another night at the motel, and we’ll get you both a flight for tomorrow morning, okay?” 

Will reluctantly nods, avoiding eye contact. 

“And for god’s sake, do let Hannibal drive.”

***

Despite his many talents, Hannibal does not appear to be a good driver. Will wonders if there are speed limits wherever he comes from, because he does not seem to be aware of their existence. Hannibal quickly changes lanes on the highway without looking, nearly crashing them into another vehicle. Will grabs onto the safety rail.

“Jesus, doctor, where’d you learn to drive?” 

Hannibal chuckles.

“Paris. Although I preferred my bike back then.” 

_ Of course _ , Will thinks. He watches Hannibal’s hands on the steering wheel, pale and slender. And perfectly still, with well-groomed and trimmed nails. He blushes.

***

Will once again spends the night in the kitchen of the Hobbs household. Abigail snuggles against her father’s grip, her eyes plead for help. Will goes to shoot. But his gun isn’t in his hands. Or his pockets. Garret Jacob Hobbs smiles sadistically. He’s let go of Abigail, and his gun is in her hands. She laughs at him as the colour drains from Will’s face. She aims the gun at him and fires with a deafening  **bang** .

When he wakes, he can’t move. Hannibal straddles his chest, his eyes glowing in the darkness, with two great antlers sticking out the top of his head. Will’s breath catches, and his heart continues to raceHe dissipates as Will goes to push him off, and he reaches for his nightstand where he keeps his gun. Garett Jacob Hobbs, in all his zombified glory, stands with his knife to Abigail’s throat and taunts him.

“Pull the trigger Will,” he growls. “You know who to shoot.”

Will flicks the safety off, shaking with every movement. Before he even moves to the trigger, the pair are riddled with bullet holes, which Will supposes are from him. He steps over the bodies and runs to the door, swinging it open.

There he finds Marissa Schurr and Cassie Boyle, both impaled by antlers. Blood drips slowly from their puncture wounds of the two naked girls. Will reaches for them, and they are similarly splattered with bullets. More blood bursts from their wounds, and covers his hands.

“No,” Will gasps. He holds his bloody hand to his face, and when he takes them away, he finds himself alone in the motel parking lot. 

Bile rises in his throat, and he collapses onto the cold concrete. His hands are clean, he is alone. He’s unarmed. It was just another nightmare. Did he sleepwalk out here? It was hard to tell. He takes long, slow breaths, trying to get his heart rate back down. Once his head stops spinning he slowly stands back up. There’s a wet spot on the pavement from his own sweat.  _ Ew _ .

He stands outside for a few moments longer, letting the cold air numb him. It’s a full moon and clear skies, and Will can see beyond the highway the motel is situated on, and into the dark deep Minnesota woods. He feels an urge to wander off into the night, to escape his crazy life, but he resists it. Now is not the time.

What he really needs at this moment is to go back to sleep. His shock has worn off enough for him to feel his eyelids drooping. He turns back to the motel complex and carefully opens the door to his room again.

His heart jumps at the sight of another hallucination sitting at his table. He jumps back, but is it what he thinks he is?

Hannibal looks up from his book. 

“Are you alright Will? I thought I heard some commotion coming from your room.”

Will realizes that this room is slightly different from his own, and has been kept much tidier than his. A half empty glass of red wine sits abandoned near the kitchen sink. He notices that Hannibal is dressed in pyjamas, (silk, of course), and that he must have opened his neighbour’s door by accident. 

“Crap,” he curses. “Wrong room, nightmares, disassociating a bit,” he explains vaguely. Hannibal frowns in concern.

“Would you like to spend the night here? Social comfort can often relieve the burden of stress.”

“No, I should just try get back to sleep.”

“Please,” Hannibal insists. “If not for your sake, then mine. I do understand some of what you’re going through.” Their eyes meet. It’s true, Hannibal had been at most of the crime scenes right by Will’s side. “We can share my bed,” he suggests, “or, of course, I can take the floor.”

Will sighs. Sleeping with Hannibal seems to be the lesser of two evils compared to waking up the state with his imaginary zombie fights. Hannibal also already knows too much about him, there’s no harm in getting close at this point.

“Fine.”

Hannibal smiles.

“I will, however, ask that you change. You look like you just stepped out a lake.” He shrivels his nose. “You can wear something of mine”.

Will ends up in one of Hannibal’s plain undershirts, which is far more comfortable than anything Will owns, and probably far more expensive, along with some of his deodorant, which boasts obscure ingredients such as vetiver extract and wasabi root, but seems to act and smell like regular deodorant. 

Hannibal’s pillow smell like him: whatever fancy cologne he wears mixed in with his own natural musky scent. It’s a nice change from his own sweat. It feels strange to be so engrossed in Hannibal’s personal things, it makes his chest feel warm. They sleep facing opposite directions, but Will is still acutely aware of the other man’s presence. Hannibal’s body is warm, and his presence does provide some comfort. Part of Will wants to reach out and touch him, although he isn’t sure why. Hannibal’s existence seems to put Will at ease. He hasn’t felt this way with anyone else. Could it be… trust?

He falls asleep gently, and dreams only of a paddock of juvenile deer. Not stalking, not impaling any bodies, just existing. The sun hits his face and he smiles.

It’s the best sleep he’s had in years.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first shot at posting a fic since I was like 13, so thank you for checking it out! I have plans to continue it, so please subscribe! Hopefully the writing isn't too shitty :)


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